


Drakehide's War Journal (Battle Reports, Craftworlds Eldar)

by redshirtontherock



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 15:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15866346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redshirtontherock/pseuds/redshirtontherock
Summary: An assorted handful of notes and journal entries kept by a Guardian of I'Tarma Edain, a waystation allied with Craftworld Ulthwe - to be updated as my Eldar gain more experience on the table.  Cross-posted on my Tumblr, http://redshirtontherock.tumblr.com/, where I also post pictures!





	Drakehide's War Journal (Battle Reports, Craftworlds Eldar)

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this up as a narrative battle report for my first game of 40K, a 35 PL game between me and a local friend at his house the other day. Some creative liberties were taken with this report, and with some of the characters/personages involved, but it was a 19-19 stalemate that turned around really sharply in the second half. (SNIPERS, ARGH - !) It was a great game, an awesome test drive for the Eldar I’ve been working on this summer. Drakehide’s war journal continues, now with a healthy dose of fear of and respect for my friend’s Blood Angels!
> 
> I'Tarma Edain is mine, Tyrynna (le Farseer) belongs to my friend staircaseelf, and everything else belongs to Games Workshop.
> 
> (While not actual Aeldari language, “Alta Nast Rodyn” roughly translates in Tolkien elvish to “Big Dick Energy,” if you really wanted to know.)

 

 

“I know without question that on this day, at the time I have just told you, we _must_ be at this point,” Farseer Tyrynna spoke, her warp-touched, gray-violet visage turning towards me and her intense violet eyes lingering on me in particular for a few seconds.  In this particular briefing for the civilian Guardians, I’d been vocal in my opposition to this plan, even moreso than usual.  “We must _secure_ this point,” she insisted, firmly, solemnly.

Despite my irritation at Tyrynna’s instructions, I did not think her misguided or mad – she has yet to ever lead our band of strays and outcasts wrong, and I suspect even now that there was a wisdom or a foresight in the course she has set us upon that will make itself clear in time.

Looking around, shortly following our arrival through the webway gate, I scoffed to myself, peeling my helmet off for a moment and inspecting my surroundings.

Why did we even _want_ this point?

Certainly, if the location was of such critical importance, one of the Craftworlds could have intervened.  Most of the Guardians of the I'tarma Edain waystation hailed from Craftworld Ulthwé, and surely they had Guardians and Wraith warriors in numbers more than enough to seize such an isolated, empty place.  The terrain was scorched, littered with old human transports and discarded drop pods, which had made skyfall years, perhaps even decades ago.  Everything was broken, and the air around us was dry, hot, and arid. 

The force we’d committed might have seemed only a handful, but it is what I'tarma Edain had to spare, and I do not say this lightly as the life of even a single Guardian is precious and valuable.  We advanced, two complements of Guardians and one of Howling Banshees, with my squad deployed in a Wave Serpent transport I had recently cobbled together from the remaining parts of three or four others.  I pride myself on my honor as a Guardian first in all things, but my capacity for engineering is a close, glorious second.

Warlocks Chelmin and Micha accompanied us, with Micha attached to my squad as usual.  She stood a little shorter than the average Eldar, but I knew her strength, endurance and spirit in battle were not to be judged by her size.  I leaned into the cockpit area, just in time to see the pilot motion to the instruments, and then forward.

“I’ve got something -” he called out, the communications systems of the Wave Serpent open to the rest of the force’s leadership – to the Warlocks, the Farseer, Exarch Doran, and Angmar, who led the second squad of Guardians.  I scanned the holographic display that shimmered to life, as did the pilot, and we could see that there were a single team of what appeared to be six human space marines in red and gold armor deployed to the far side of the battle-ravaged gorge that we stood within.  Further ahead of them, having moved into what they considered clever cover, no doubt, were five more of the marines, more lightly-armored scouts.  Behind them lumbered a single, solitary dreadnaught, towering at a respectable height for such a machination but smaller than a Wraithlord or Wraithknight would stand, by far.

“Six marines in the back, five forward and to our right, and a dreadnaught with them,” he continued, sounding sobered at the sight.

“Of course,” I heard Farseer Tyrynna sigh through my headset, in what almost sounded like a vague “I-thought-so.”

“I suppose this is where we get out,” I noted dryly.

“It is,” Tyrynna responded in an equally dry tone, and no sooner did she speak the words than the ramp lowered, and Warlock Micha began abrasively ushering our group towards it, Wraithblade in hand.

“Mon'keigh,” spat the pilot of the transport, under his breath, scowling at the sight.  I paused despite myself, and moved to place my hand on his shoulder, calling his attention.

“Dangerous to dismiss them as such,” I remarked, a little gravely, “As dangerous as to dismiss a charging ork at your door.  Primitive as we might perceive them, they are a threat to us and we should meet them accordingly.”

_And meet them with basic respect_ , I thought to myself, though I did not speak this aloud _.  At the very least._

“Perhaps one of these days they’ll surprise you,” I called out, moving to retrieve the hovering Shuriken Cannon platform that was my charge. (I have dubbed it “Alta Nast Rodyn,” and no, you probably do not want to know what that means translated from its original Aeldari.) Little did I know how regretfully right my words would prove to be, and the humbling shock that the superhuman warriors were about to deliver us.

The pilot, all the same, scoffed a little as I moved to the ramp. “There’s _twelve_ of them -” he remarked, as if this presented a self-evident point. Grimly, and not responding, I headed down the ramp.

“I want the big one,” Doran called out, with a grin, his smooth voice through the headset altogether in disparity with the ear-piercing, baleful cry that his Banshee mask emitted.

“We know, Doran,” responded Warlocks Micha and Chelmin in eerie unison.

“I _hate_ it when they do that,” I murmured to myself, taking my position with the rest of the group near the transport from which we had disembarked.

Our orders were to dispatch the scouts at the front and seize their cover.  We accomplished this with ease.  We felt a sense of deep clarity and focus, which I recognized as our Farseer either psionically guiding our hands or willing misery and doom down upon our enemy.  In either case, they fell under a rain of glowing shuriken fire with such ease that I wondered if perhaps I was going to have to eat my words, when next I met the pilot of the Wave Serpent.  Not that I was complaining about how well we were doing so far.

We did not lose a single Guardian to them, as we made our way towards the old, rusted barricade they had been crouched behind, claiming it as our own.  Almost half the humans’ number had already fallen. Despite my general vigilance in such matters, even I felt confident and assured of our victory.

This is roughly when several unfortunate things happened in unison.  Very unfortunate things.  Sparks flew up from the barricade at a ricochet, and then a moment later a shot felled a Guardian standing to my left, which caused me to grimace deeply.  As I suspected, we had underestimated them, and underestimated their numbers.

“More scouts,” I called out over my headset, training my Shuriken Cannon on what was…surely the most obvious cover in the distance, an old Chaos cult shrine, with numerous windows and open passageways, easily the sort of place where we’d have placed Rangers ahead of us, had I'tarna Edain any to avail of.  The pilot of the Wave Serpent spotted them before I did, moving in and trying to light up the structure and its various windows and doorways with shuriken fire.  In the strobing light of the shuriken fire I saw two, then three, then four of the scouts fall, and while I breathed some relief at this I also knew that if they had managed to hide one additional unit of scouts, for all we knew there could be  more in hiding, many more.

Little did I realize that while we were occupied with the scouts, Exarch Doran and the Howling Banshees from his Aspect shrine had rushed forward, into a full-blown charge at the remaining six visible marines, and the dreadnaught.

“Doran - !” snapped the Farseer.

“I told you, I want the big one - !” Doran called out, with an audible, manic brawler’s grin in his tone, which…to be fair, was absolutely what any of us could have or should expected from Doran.

The third unfortunate thing which happened almost in unison was that even as they started to charge forward, their power swords raised high, a few scattered Howling Banshees were cut down by more sniper fire, at an angle that should have been impossible for any of scouts in the Chaos shrine still pinned down by the Wave Serpent.  I scowled, about to warn the others, but Warlock Micha had already beaten me to it.

“They have more scouts, to the left, behind the dreadnaught - !” she called out, “What do we do - ?”

There was quiet for a few seconds and while I didn’t understand the words, or recognize the name, the Farseer’s next statement was chilling to me, and to my companions as well.

“Tycho,” Tyrynna remarked slowly, “Captain Erasmus Tycho is here -”

The name meant nothing to me, but I knew especially in tandem with the sniper fire raining down on us, and the sight of the now-advancing dreadnaught lumbering towards the hovering Wave Serpent nearby, that the name couldn’t be a good omen in the least.

Meeting the dreadnaught head-on was Exarch Doran and the group of Banshees he led, his Executioner axe a blur as he spun it, cleaving deftly and methodically into the joints and the hard-points of the lumbering mech.  My heart leapt with hope for a moment, but then sank as the dreadnaught, seeming to effortlessly absorb the impacts, moved a lumbering fist to slam down next to Doran, crushing one of his battle-sisters in a sickening instant.  If anything, Doran’s assault only intensified at this, and with a  howl the rest of the Banshees joined him, unleashing a torrent of pistol fire and sword-blows on the titan – not that, save for the occasional cut of Doran’s axe, they seemed to do much at all to damage it.  

The leader of the marines – who I presumed to be this “Captain Tycho” - rather than opening fire on Doran and his Aspect Warriors moved, to my surprise, to charge in close, answering the power swords and the assault of the Howling Banshees with bladed weapons of their own. Despite greater numbers, Doran’s sisters fell one by one, overwhelmed by the force of these monstrous, nine-foot humans, Tycho and his nearby Lieutenant being the most ferocious of them all.  

“Doran, get out of there - !” our Farseer snapped, anger masking a dread in her tone as we watched the Exarch’s forces wane.

“Not until -” Doran rasped, the signal from his helmet crackling and spitting static, “- big one - !”

It was only Doran, before long, left standing, in what seemed to be a hurricane of blades, of red and gold armor, of monstrous humans raining pummeling blows down on him.  As he disappeared beneath a pile of them in melee, one last glimmering strike of the Executioner cut through, and…we gasped in surprise, exhaling in relief as we watched smoke pour from the marines’ dreadnaught as it finally dropped to the ground, motionless and damaged to the point of inoperability.

“Yes - !” I exclaimed, grinning brightly, for a moment my focus shifted from my targets in the Chaos ruins, “He did it - !”

The Wave Serpent was coming about as well, moving to try and strike the marines from behind, circling past the ruins it had bombarded.  With both of our Guardian squads to one side, and the shielded Wave Serpent to the other, I was sure once more that victory was in our reach.  The marines numbered only two as our Farseer rained down psionic, smiting strikes against the rest – only Tycho and the Lieutenant remained, and they seemed half-beaten.

I turned my gaze towards the Farseer, who was staying close to Angmar’s Guardian squad, when my blood ran cold.  

“Farseer - !” Micha called out in alarm, and dread, as we beheld a spray of blood pouring from a torso wound that had cut through Tyrynna.  One of the snipers had found their mark, and our leader was wounded, taken out of the fight.  Angmar, who knew where her first duty was in this fight, dove back towards the Farseer, dragging her into cover. Chelmin, still directing the Guardian squad, had them advance, firing everything they had towards the remaining pair of marines – Shuriken Catapults, Bright Lances, even Chelmin’s own Singing Spear, all of it.

I watched in horror as strike after strike landed, making virtually no difference in the fight at all.  Even the Bright Lance seemed only to glance Tycho’s armor – even a tank-killing weapon seeming hopelessly outmatched against the might of this human.  Before our eyes, where there had been a full complement of Guardians there were only three left, and the last of those were cut down trying to break free of Tycho.  Chelmin’s spear finally found its mark, piercing and pinning the Lieutenant, but no sooner did she fell the Lieutenant than she was struck, blown back, and knocked to the ground like a ragdoll by another of Tycho’s attacks.

There was still the Wave Serpent!  Surely Tycho couldn’t manage an entire Wave Serpent by himself -

Missile fire rained out of the chaos ruins.  Despite the sheer volume of shuriken fire we had unloaded into the ruins, that I had personally rained down into the ruins with my “Alta Nast Rodyn,” we had missed one of the scouts.  Apparently, the scout had a missile launcher.  Quaint.  The Wave Serpent was bombarded from the back by missile fire, from the front by Tycho who was taking new cover, and it crumpled under the assault, bursting into flames. I had just _fixed_ that Wave Serpent - !

We traded blows, firing back and forth from across barricades, Tycho and his scouts against myself, Micha, and the squad of Guardians I was attached to.  Our numbers gradually, slowly, started to dwindle, and despite all my earlier confidence I was sure that if the fighting in this quagmire went on much longer we would be routed and slain, one and all.  To my surprise, some…unknown aim in this conflict had either been achieved or abandoned by both sides, the long shooting match ending in a stalemate as both sides seemed to slide back into a retreat.  

I had one more deed that needed to be done.  I passed my Shuriken Cannon off to one of my comrades with instructions to run it back, and before Micha could make a vocal, abrasive protest against my course I ran down the center of the field on my own, Shuriken Catapult still shouldered, trying to dig through the ruins, wreckage, and debris for some sign of Doran’s spirit stone.  Micha, it turns out, was too busy retrieving her partner Chelmin to pay my actions any mind.

Slain though Doran may have been, if his soul or the souls of his sisters could be retrieved through their stones, there still might be hope that they be saved from She Who Thirsts -

There was motion beneath one of the crumpled dreadnaught’s arms, and I hauled on it, pulling the limb back with all my strength, spotting Exarch Doran crushed beneath – easily with a few broken bones, the Wraithbone armor shattered in places, but…truthfully, I have seen Doran in worse shape.  I peeled back the Banshee mask, to check his condition, and he looked up at me with a grin of bloodied teeth, a split lip, and a bruise around one eye.  

“Did I get the big one - ?” he asked, deliriously.

“Yes, Doran, you got the big one,” I answered dumbly, just trying to shut him up for now so that I could get him clear of the carnage.  Taking him, and a handful of spirit stones that I could find, I raised him over my shoulder, starting the rush back towards the wounded Farseer and the rest of our retreat, seeming only by some grace of some unknown god to be spared from sniper fire as I did so.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Captain Tycho in the center of the field as well, pulling out the spear that had crippled his own Lieutenant, and dragging him off to safety as well.  Whether he’d seen me or not, to this day I do not know.

Truth be told, I know precious little about Erasmus Tycho, about his “Blood Angels”, or about Tyrynna’s aims.  I do not know why it was critical that we be in just this place at just this time.  I trust in the foresight of our Farseer, yet it grieves me that dozens of precious Aeldari lives were lost, especially among Doran and Angmar’s companies.  Mine made it out with only half our number intact – and we were the lucky ones.

What little I do know, and what I take away from the bloodbath on that jagged plain, is that I’ll not be dismissing humans as “Mon'keigh” or primitive anytime soon.  That condescending dismissal in itself gives them a power over us, and encourages Aeldari in their pride and confidence towards ruin.  Where we have millenia of experience, trial and error, they have a foxlike cunning and stubborn tenacity that should not be overlooked.  Our lack of respect and healthy caution for them has cost us dearly.

I'tarma Edain grieves, and I return to my work, and my path.  The Wave Serpents in the hangar aren’t going to rebuild themselves.

Bron “Drakehide”

\- Shuriken Cannon gunner, “Emberwing” Guardian Squad, I'tarma Edain waystation


End file.
